


The Questing Beast

by auspicium (latenightfangirl)



Series: In Asking Riddles That Have No Answers [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Slytherin's Locket, Yule, because I'm a sucker for ballroom dancing, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:14:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightfangirl/pseuds/auspicium
Summary: O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love?Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:And these wild words of fury but proclaimA heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!― Lewis Carroll, Four Riddles, No. II





	1. A Raven's Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There comes a happy pause, for human strength_   
>  _Will not endure to dance without cessation;_   
>  _And every one must reach the point at length_   
>  _Of absolute prostration._
> 
> ― Lewis Carroll, Four Riddles, No. I

The Great Hall was only partly occupied, seeing as it was still early morn. There was an array of students from Ravenclaw seated at their table, a few Hufflepuffs at their own, and barely any Gryffindors. Hattie was paging through a book, absentmindedly filling up her plate. Blaise and Theodore had both joined her for breakfast, along with Daphne and Millicent Bulstrode. Pansy had declined, opting to stay behind and fix her makeup. She would not be seen in public until she deemed it ‘perfection’.

Hattie was about to take a bite of her marmalade toast, plenty more students arriving as minutes ticked by, when Hedwig swooped in to the Great Hall. Setting the food down, Hattie watched her familiar land on the table, dropping a roll of parchment in front of her. It was a high-quality parchment, one used by mostly wealthy purebloods. Hattie picked it up, ignoring the glances from her neighbors. She noted the seal was that of Slytherin – an elaborate letter S done to look like a snake, pressed in silver wax. Hattie thought about opening it later, once she was sequestered in her dorm room, but shrugged and forewent the idea. Cracking the seal, Hattie’s eyes roved over the contents of the parchment.

 

_Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy_

_Lord and Lady of the Malfoy family_

_Extend the honor for thee,_

_Henrietta Potter_

_Lady of the Potter and Peverell Lines_

_to attend the annual_

_Malfoy Yule Ball_

The Malfoy Yule Ball was a renowned event which was also notoriously hard to get into. There were three types of invitations: one for prominent figures in society, another for allies of the family, and the last was to be invited by an already attending guest. Hattie suspected hers to be both the first and second. She was both the Girl Who Lived and Euclid, so the first was certain. However, she also suspected the Malfoys to be courting her as a family ally. The third, however…

 

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_Extends Noble invitation_

_To Hattie Peverell_

The third had three tiers. Depending on who extended invitation, and the Malfoy’s feelings on the matter, there were invitation rankings. The lowest, and least respectable, of the invitations was a _Kindly_ invitation. The middle, and most common, invitation was _Worthy_. The highest-ranking invitation one could receive was a _Noble_ invitation. These were near impossible to come by.

“Is that a Malfoy Ball invitation?” asked Blaise, furtively leaning in to get a better look. He whistled. “Noble invitation? Whoever this Riddle is, he must be well off.” Blaise paused. “The name doesn’t sound familiar. Riddle?” he muttered, brow scrunching in thought.

Theodore, who had been listening in, paled. Hattie noticed this, but did not comment. Instead, she rolled up her parchment and stowed it away, giving a bit of food to Hedwig. The owl hooted, flapping her wings, then took off.

At the Ravenclaw table, Draco was watching her with a closed expression. Hattie nodded to him, to which he turned back to his food. By this time, the Great Hall was beginning to fill up. Most tables were nearly full, and not one of the professors were missing – even Quirrell. His eyes caught Hattie’s for but a moment, but during that time a meaningful look was shared. They both turned away, attention being grabbed by the arrival of the Daily Prophet owls.

Hattie was correct in her assumptions, it seemed. This news was not something the Prophet would wait to announce. No, they would sell it as fast and as loudly as they could. Hattie wasn’t much surprised; not when she had planned for this.

On the front cover, a picture spanned the length of the page. Charcoal cloaked and dainty stature. Red hair pooling at the shoulders and framing the face. Pale skin and dark, dark eyes lit with a mischievous sort of amusement. Two figures at her sides, easily recognized as –

“It can’t be!” shouted a student from the Ravenclaw table. Hattie ignored him, ignored the masses, ignored all but her breakfast. Oh, the days to come would be so much _fun_.

_Henrietta Potter, Girl-Who-Lived – the mastermind behind Euclid’s Elements?_

 

* * *

Light glistened off the freshly fallen snow, shimmering in an array of colors. A single, albino peacock wandered through the expanse of white, leaving tracks in its wake. They were soon to be covered up by new layers, until they were no more. Despite the downfall being slow and not at all heavy, it kept the yard from becoming marred with imprints. That was quite the feat, seeing as the Malfoy’s were garnering quite the number of attendees to their soiree.

From each of the archways, mistletoe and Holly hung, strung in beatific arrays. There was red and green ribbonry, along with shining silver and gold. The green and silver were noticeably more common than their counterparts. Pine cones were hung as well, some dusted with spices and others held in groups.

The most magnificent sight of all were the bountiful trees which dotted the property. Birch, Holly, Oak, Pine, Yew, and plenty more could be found. Some were full grown, showcased by glittering fairy lights, and others were short and kept in pots, lining the walk ways that led from place to place. These were mostly Pine, as they were the greenest of the bunch. Decorations hung from some, and others were bare save for the smatterings of snow cresting their branches.

Bells rung in the distance. As more company arrived, wizards and witches were greeted and led in. Hattie was proud to say she was fashionably on time, and with gifts.

A wizard burst into the ballroom, panting heavily. Guests looked on at him with distaste, barely giving him a glance. They returned to their conversations, but not for long.

“The – The _Herlaþing_ is here!” he shouted, drawing a few glances. “Herla’s Assembly! Woden’s Hunt!” This elicited a few mutterings of, _babbling_ , and _mad_. The wizard continued, nonetheless. “The Wild Hunt has arrived! I saw it with mine own eyes – Herla King riding with his Hounds!”

“Somebody remove this wizard from the premises!” called an older woman. “He is raving, and –,” another wizard burst in, along with a witch, interrupting her speech. They both were frazzled and dotted with white specks of snow.

“Red hair – Hounds – sleigh,” said the man, attempting to reign in his ragged breath. The woman took this moment to speak up.

“He is telling the truth! Come and see for yourselves – a rider with red hair has arrived with _Cŵn Annwn_ at their side. We came to warn the Lord and Lady – Lady Narcissa? What are –?”

She brushed past the three, holding her robes at her sides to keep from stepping on them. Narcissa moved swiftly and with purpose. It wasn’t long before she had reached the gates, and spotted the head of deeply red hair. Henrietta Potter, bane of her (and many others’) lives – she hadn’t a doubt in her mind when she heard the news that the disturbance was caused by her.

A grand entrance indeed.

Hattie looked up from where she stood, forcing her _Cŵn Annwn_ into submission. They needed to learn to follow her orders exactly, lest they find themselves one Hound short. She did enjoy how the guests had run at the sight of her, however… perhaps she could allow a little leeway.

“Lady Potter,” greeted Narcissa, dropping into a curtsy. She looked spectacular in her formfitting silver robes. Smiling courteously, not belaying her inner turmoil, she continued, “A wonderful Yule it is, and,” a pause and a pointed glance to her _Cŵn Annwn_ , “quite the resurgence of tradition. Your hounds are marvelous, might I say.”

Ah, Narcissa – ever the people pleaser. Her husband was even worse than her in that aspect. “Lady Malfoy,” Hattie nodded, curtsying. “It’s a pleasure to be in your company this fine afternoon. I must commend you on your decorations – they are certainly a sight to behold. With the size of your grounds, it must not be asking too much trouble to let my Hounds roam, would it?” Delight danced behind her eyes. Of course, it would irk the Malfoys to have her _Cŵn Annwn_ roaming about, unhinged.

“No, not at all,” Narcissa said, but her posture said otherwise. “Might I lead you in? The festivities do not begin until this evening; however, many have already arrived.” Hattie smiled politely, head tilting slightly. She nodded, taking hold of her bag.

“I would appreciate that, yes.”

* * *

Hattie fiddled with her Yew hair stick – perfect for the Winter Solstice, as dictated by the Ogham calendar. A few strands of locks fell out, and Hattie left them as they were; they fitted the ensemble nicely. She had worn her usual charcoal cloak whilst riding through the snow, but upon entering the Malfoy estate, Hattie had removed it.

Her robes were a pale white, but shown like the underside of an abalone shell. They shimmered in the light, radiating various muted colors with her movements. Hattie found these robes to be her favorite – they were not only stunning, but made to last, no matter the circumstances. She could be hit with any number of hexes and they would not affect her or her robes in the least.

At her side, her bag squirmed. It was a grand idea to use a Niffler as a carrier, even if training it had taken all her patience. It wouldn’t be wandering off tonight looking for items to steal – not while she had any say in it.

“Miss Peverell,” drawled a smooth, baritone voice from behind her. Hattie turned around, a sly smile growing on her lips. She knew that voice. “Would you care for this dance?” asked the man, thin lips mouthing the words.

“I would love to,” Hattie replied, dropping her palm into his waiting one. The man in black – no, the darkest shade of green – robes swept her onto the ballroom floor, twirling her with grace. Despite the height difference, the dance was done especially well. “I thought I told you to call me Hattie,” she said, voice but a murmur.

Voldemort spun her once again. “This is your first time meeting Tom Riddle, is it not? Would it not be strange to already be on a first name basis?”

“So that was you!” she laughed, giddy. Hattie’s robes swished around her as they trailed from one end of the ballroom to the other. She was delightfully surprised that he hadn’t left her for another yet. It would be wonderful if she could dance the night away, here with the soul she coveted.

“Obviously,” drawled the man, grip tightening at her waist when she dipped. Hattie’s hair fell in her eyes, obscuring her face momentarily. When she was brought back up, Lord Voldemort swiped the fringe from her eyes. His fingers lingered on the strands of hair. Hattie smirked.

“Enjoying your new body?” she asked, knowing her work had been impeccable. He would not find fault with it, for, how could he? It was perfectly functioning, and met his needs perfectly. The soul would not be at home in a host that did not feel familiar, after all – and that’s what this body was: familiar.

“It is… better than I expected,” he admitted, as they passed another couple. His eyes – dark like Hattie’s, but brown in color – strayed to her neckline, tracing the pale skin, before flicking back up to her face. Hattie smiled knowingly. He may not like the appearance, but this body was his own.

The lights dimmed, and fairy lights lit on the tips of the chandeliers. As the darkness encroached, the lights began to drift around the room, lighting the surroundings like summer fireflies. The music slowed to something more traditional.

 _“Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy. Though winter blasts blow never so high, green groweth the holly,”_ Hattie sang lowly, swaying to the tune. _“As the holly groweth green, and never changeth hue –,”_

Lord Voldemort – Tom Riddle – leaned in close, whispering into her ear, _“So I am, ever hath been, unto my lady true.”_ His breath was warm, and tingled along her nape of her neck. The sultry voice echoed in her thoughts.

 _“As the holly groweth green, with ivy all alone – when flowers cannot be seen and greenwood leaves be gone,”_ she continued, the dance coming to an end. The Yule Log would be lit soon, and drinks shared.

 _“Now unto my lady, promise to her I make, from all other only to her I me betake.”_ Voldemort’s hands glided up her back, tracing her spine. Hattie shivered involuntarily, and even more so when cool metal slipped around her neck. _“Adieu, mine own lady, adieu, my special, who hath my heart truly. Be sure, and ever shall.”_

The locket rested against the center of her chest, heavy and deceptively cold. It wasn’t for long, though, as it pulsed with radiating warmth at the touch of her magic.

“My thanks,” she said, running a finger along the chain. Lord Voldemort’s eyes watched her do so with dark promise. “Let us go join the kindling of the fire. They have brilliant Wassail, I have heard.”

The Dark Lord brought her close, in what could almost be called an embrace, before taking her hand. He brought her knuckles to his lips, letting his mouth rest lightly against them. “You will be staying for the later festivities,” he told her, leading her from the ballroom floor.

“Of course,” said Hattie, chuckling. “I am looking forward to it.”

Sacrifice was, after all, traditional – and Hattie wouldn’t miss it for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back from the dead... this chapter is not edited nor do i expect i will edit for some time. i am tired and finals are nEXT WEEK IM CRYING
> 
> on a better note, this series only has one more installment (finally! i can work on other things) and it's going to be three LONG chapters. probably. no promises...
> 
> comments are always appreciated (along with kudos, bookmarks, subscribes, etc) because i love my readers <3
> 
> the next chapter will be out either this week or next, depending on whether i finish it today and post it this week, or finish it after finals and post next week. hopefully i finish it today?? it's nearly done and i just want it out of the way so i can give you guys the chapters you deserve
> 
> and before i forget, the poem is Green Groweth the Holly by Henry VIII, King of England (correct me if im wrong, i wrote that chapter months ago and didn't put references in my notes... ugh) and the other refs i'll add... later... probably...
> 
> (minor grammar/spelling edits and fixing some stuff 12-4-17)


	2. Against Three Tongues Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ah, cruel Three!_

Silver, shimmering in the light – a chain looped around her neck, a locket hanging heavy and resting against her chest. The surface of it caught the light, rendering it unidentifiable for a short time, before she would turn and it would come into view: An S shaped like a hissing serpent, green like emeralds and surrounded by the finest silver.

Henrietta Potter, Hattie Peverell, had returned to Hogwarts with a locket around her neck.

And Draco Malfoy knew exactly where she had gotten it, whom she received it from, and what it was.

Well, no, that was not entirely true. He did not know the full meaning behind it. He had suspicions, but nothing tangible. Hattie had not answered any questions pertaining to the locket, nor had she taken it off once. When she ran her fingers across it, Draco was almost certain it hummed with pleasure. That – that was weird. And completely expected of Hattie.

Hattie was… hard to pin down. Draco knew that she was more than she seemed – sometimes her eyes flashed with something dark, a personality unlike the one she presented. She was the epitome of Slytherin qualities, even if some disagreed. Draco could see that the front she put on was just that – a front, a mask, a sort of image she wanted others to see. It was so well done that Draco sometimes thought she wasn’t faking at all. Then there were those moments.

The moments when, for a split second, she was utterly blank. Her expression flat, and her eyes devoid of any sort of emotion. Draco wondered whether this was her true self, or some sort of coping mechanism. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

There were moments when Hattie found entertainment in the strangest of things, macabre things, and Draco felt sickened. She would send knowing glances, communicate with her eyes, and act far too mature for her age. Draco would know. Hattie was… something else.

Therefore, he wasn’t surprised –

No, that would be a lie. Draco was utterly flummoxed that the Dark Lord would – could possibly be – courting Henrietta Potter.

Then again, he really shouldn’t be – surprised, that is. Hattie loved to cause chaos, and generally mess with other’s minds, so why wouldn’t she revel in the chance to incite more through… through…

The locket had to be a courting gift. Draco was sure – what with the way the Dark Lord had been acting, taking Hattie around and dancing with her, holding her close… Draco grimaced. He didn’t want to think about that. It had to be, though – the way they had acted together, the way they fit –

It was almost surreal, how well they fit together; how perfect a match they were. Whilst they had danced, Draco had felt it – the entire gathering had felt it – the way their magic had connected. It was not a battle of dominance, nor one of them submitting as a lesser. They were equals, in every right. Where the Dark Lord’s magic was strong in one aspect, Hattie’s was in another.

Draco had not thought it was possible for two powerful magics to meet without consuming the other. It had happened, though, and between the Dark Lord and Hattie, nonetheless. It was beautiful. It was… overwhelming. Like two fires, both burning brightly, meeting and coalescing. They burned fiercer when together, but on their own, they were still fire –both still capable of causing mass destruction.

Despite this, Draco was still hesitant – it seemed so improbable, so unexpected, so…

Was the Dark Lord _really_ courting Hattie?

* * *

Time was not of consequence to him anymore – not anymore, not here. He was a wisp of darkness in the endless pool of black. The darkest, the Blackest of Arts, the Horcrux. Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, Slytherin’s Locket: these names, titles, epithets – they were meaningless to him. His existence consisted solely of the silver walls and beating heart beneath him; the warmth that soaked into his wretched being, his splintered heart and shredded soul.

Henrietta Potter – the girl, the heart, the warmth, the entity who wore him around her neck – was a balm to his being. Where his existence was contained to the solid locket walls, she gave him a pool of the darkest magic to swim about, the deepest soul to stretch his aching limbs in.

As his existence was wont to do, he spread his malice upon first contact. Henrietta, Hattie, his beating heart – she was unaffected. His creeping tendrils of hate and anger and loathing – they sunk into the depths of her Black soul, her empty soul, her emptiness, and drifted until they dissipated into nothingness.

He was angry: this was his nature. His quest to condemn her continued, for how long was indeterminable, until his rage began to taper. His existence was changed, his malice eroded into a serene sense of Belonging. She was his, irrefutably, amazingly, excruciatingly. There was a piece of Lord Voldemort, another Existence, within her: it hissed and spit at him, as if to say, _she is mine; she is taken._

He did not care.

* * *

There was something wrong.

Hermione could feel it in her bones. She never trusted her intuition, as she could not prove its worth, but something told her to listen this time. Instincts a trait left from the time when humans were but wild creatures surviving in a chaotic world, when they only had the prickle under their skin and the sensation of eyes on their back to tell them when to run.

Hers was telling her that something was terribly, horribly, wrong with Hattie Peverell.

Or perhaps Hermione was being selfish.

Ever since she had left for the Malfoy’s ball – no, it was before that, wasn’t it? When had it been, when had it happened? Something had changed, in the way she spoke to Hermione, in the way she looked at her and did not have the same edge to her eyes – her dark, dark eyes.

She did not look at with Hermione with that same interest, the keen satisfaction, the curious edge. Hattie was, and always had been, a fan of interesting – as she would put it – things. Hermione was one of those, of that she was sure: her sponge-like retention of information, her utter craving for knowledge – she was very like Hattie in that, wasn’t she?

Sometimes Hermione felt as though she understood Hattie, that those moments of eerie emptiness were but a facade, a mask of indifference in the face of life’s cruelties.

But it was not.

And Hermione knew better than to lie, even to herself.

(That was a lie.)

There was something wrong with Hattie. Something wrong with her. Hermione was not interesting to her anymore, or she had found something more intriguing than Hermione. But what, or who, could be better than her? She did not want to seem selfish, or even self-absorbed, but who – of all their peers – could be Hermione’s better? She was smart, the top of their class, and Hattie didn’t care whether she was a –

A –

Did she?

Hattie had found something she loved – she cannot love, she obsesses, she craves – more than Hermione. It had something to do with the Malfoy’s ball, the locket she twirled betwixt her pale, beautiful fingers, and the puckish smile that graced her –

Her –

Her beautiful red lips.

* * *

Lustrous silver, framed by the skin of her fingertips, warm beneath her touch: Slytherin’s Locket, a stray soul piece wedged between darkness and metal. Hattie turned it over: once, twice, again and again. She found it to suit her tastes quite well, in more ways than one.

It beat to a slow cadence, too sluggish for a human heart and yet, she mused, it mimicked one well; too well. Her own heart refused to beat at times, veins pulsing and pumping cold, unfiltered blood, and then she would remember that _yes, she does live! Her heart doth beat, and lungs do respire._ She will admit to forgetting this fact quite often.

The silken folds of a cloak hung from her left hand, waves of iridescent silver and particles of shimmering light. It was an invisibility cloak, _her_ invisibility cloak, and yet it was only just returning to her possession. Hattie held it with the utmost care, bringing it to her lips; she kissed the fabric, inhaled its chilling scent, and let her eyelashes flutter against the surface.

The night would be bountiful.

* * *

“I see you have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised,” spoke Dumbledore, stepping out of the curling shadows and lingering silence. “I, myself, was once enraptured with what its surface showed me; do you, too, Miss Potter, yearn for the sight before you?” Hattie glance back at the weathered man – he appeared resigned to her inevitable response.

Hattie looked away from him, gaze seeking out the corners of the room, before flicking back to the mirror. Her countenance, usually so neatly held together, began to slag. The change was almost unnoticeable, but there nonetheless: her shoulders were drooped, not at all the confident air they usually presumed; her palms were at her sides, looking lost and unsure what to do with themselves; and her face was gaunt in the flickering light.

She reached out to run, as though she wished to touch the mirror’s image, before recoiling back. Hattie looked stricken, fighting an internal battle. Her head dropped and shoulders shook. “Why…?” she asked, surprising Dumbledore. Her eyes burned. “Why? I don’t need them; I’ve never needed them… All my life, I’ve only relied on myself; but then why? Why do I see them?” She shook her head, teeth gritting.

“Who, my dear? Who do you see?”

Hattie paused, eyes wide as she stared at a sight only she could see. “I see… a woman. She looks like me, but her eyes are a bright green, and she’s smiling… She’s standing next to a man. He has wild, black hair and hazel eyes… He’s grinning down at me. I see my parents, my family, and we’re _happy_ …”

“The Mirror of Erised shows your heart’s desire,” said Dumbledore, his eyes bright and hopeful. “Your true desire: a family. It’s dangerous, though, as many have gone insane just looking at it. The mirror will be moved to a new location tomorrow, but I hope you remember our conversation, Miss Potter –,”

“Peverell,” Hattie corrected.

“Wouldn’t you wish to be called by your family’s name, my dear?” he asked, softly. “It would bring you closer to your parents.” He met her eyes, and was taken aback by what he saw: cold, unfeeling darkness. Against his better nature, Dumbledore started and took a step back.

“No, not particularly,” she said, voice devoid of intonation. “My name is Hattie Peverell. This mirror shows the heart’s desire, and do you know what I truly see?” Hattie turned her head mechanically towards the mirror. “I see darkness. I see _nothing._ I have no heart, but I have desire: in fact, I am seeing something right now…”

The room became colder with each word she spoke. Their breaths fanned from their lips, rising in plumes of wispy air. With her unfathomably dark eyes, and pale as the dead skin, Hattie Peverell appeared quite like Death itself: the mist rising from her lips could have been the souls of the damned, escaping from their terrible fate.

“I see _your festering corpse.”_

* * *

There was humming, there was whispering, a hushed murmur, a promise of eternity, a soul’s song of longing and _want_ . And Hattie would _give._

But first, oh first, she would _take._

And take she did.

She held the locket in her palms, cradled it with the importance of a vow, an oath to take and to give in equal parts, to hunger and to _feed_.

Hattie held the locket aloft, above her head – an offering to a god, a sacrifice to a devil, and let it touch her lips in the barest fission of soul on skin.

She let it drop into the endless darkness that was her gaping maw, and consumed Tom Riddle’s soul.

Another part of her, that both was and wasn’t her – that had withered in jealousy and burned in longing, hummed with satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm avoiding acknowledging that I have finals to study for. And work to do. And a book report to write...
> 
> (The last installment will be awesome! I can feel it! As a little bonus for keeping with me to the end, the title of the last fic is The Vorpal Blade and it will have three chapters - that's if my plan follows through. You'll see it either this month or next. Love you guys <3 )


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